


Not Much of a Fairy Tale

by captive_hetalian



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Violence, Death, FACE Family, Fae & Fairies, Faeries - Freeform, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22692241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captive_hetalian/pseuds/captive_hetalian
Summary: America gave away his name to a faery, not knowing what he was or the consequences of what he was doing -- until it's too late. He's then taken into Faerie, a land where mortals end up either dead, mad, or poets. America isn't mortal, but he was definitely in over his head, changed beyond how he or others could have imagined. So he can't blame anyone when they don't recognize him -- he doesn't even recognize himself. All he wants is to go back to how he was, but as time goes on, he thinks maybe that who he was is gone forever.
Relationships: America/Lithuania (Hetalia), Canada/Denmark (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), Norway/Romania (Hetalia)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 51





	1. Return

Of all the irresponsible, self-centered, careless, thoughtless…

“Do you expect to just see him walking through the door?” asked France as he held out a Starbucks cup. “London fog. I’m sure the experience is better than what it’s named after.”

England rolled his eyes but took the cup without argument. He was seated in the hotel’s lobby, still glancing towards the door, despite his boyfriend’s teasing.

“ _ Two _ days,” England grumbled before taking a long sip of his latte.

The taste of vanilla mixing with the earl grey helped calm him slightly; he’d always had a sweet tooth, even if he didn’t make this known to most. But the irritation returned tenfold when he overheard Sweden and Finland whispering about America’s absence to one-another while getting a cup of complimentary coffee near the sitting area.

These types of world meetings were more for the Nations themselves than for the business of their bosses. It was like an annual reunion, more necessary back before long-distance communication became so easy, but the tradition kept on, as nothing really could replace face-to-face meetings. Not truly. Especially when some of the Nations meeting were in long-distance relationships, and these meetings were essentially dates on their governments’ dimes instead of out of their own pockets.

“He will be here,” France sighed, but the lack of poeticism or out-there suggestions of where America  _ could _ be told England that he was either worried or angry.

It could be hard to tell at first, until he made it obvious. While France had sowed a reputation of wearing his heart on his sleeve, he honestly wasn’t nearly so easy to read accurately. Not even after knowing him for so long.

“But where on Earth—?”

“Arthur.”

England glanced at France, his tone making him nervous, and he followed his gaze to the front door.

“Please tell me you see what I see,” France whispered, and England nodded once.

“What on Earth is one of the Folk doing here?”

The faery was tall with long, sandy blond hair that, paired with a smattering of freckles, gave them away as having a mortal parent. Their hair fell over their shoulders and swept down their back, ending just above their trim waist. There were long, thin feathers mixed in with the strands and were closer to gold than blond.

They wore a simple tunic and dark-colored hose that tucked into leather boots, declaring them either of the wild fae or one of the lower classes of the Courts. Their long, dark brown duster fell to just below their knees, partially-concealing a long, thin light brown tail with blond hair and golden feathers on either side (creating a shape similar to the fletching of an arrow). The fur was long but never seemed to tangle. The air around the faery shimmered, indicating the use of a glamour, but it wasn’t a strong-enough one to trick England’s (or France’s) True Sight.

The odd thing was that they wore glasses. Fae didn’t wear them, unless using them to aid in disguise, though most could just glamour a pair in front of their eyes.

“This doesn’t feel right,” France whispered, and England nodded again but took a sip of his drink, not sure what to say.

America had been missing for two days. They’d all assumed he was late—again, even if he’d never been  _ this _ late before—but now, the morning of the third day, a faery was walking into the hotel about two-dozen of the Nations were checked into.

The faery walked over to the front desk, the clerk shaking his head at first. England’s lip-reading wasn’t the best anymore, but it looked like he was telling the fae, “I can’t give that information.”

Was the faery trying to find out which room belonged to someone?

Why?

Now, they were reaching into the pocket of their duster and pulled out leaves, holding them in front of the clerk as the air around the leaves shimmered—glamour, to make them look like kroner.

The clerk's eyes went wide, and he snatched the leaves, as though worried this person might change their mind before he could take them.

The clerk’s fingers flew over his keyboard, and he read something, but the angle made it impossible for England to read his lips this time. But the faery looked confused; their charming smile slipped somewhat as they asked something.

“... still here?” England was able to make out.

The clerk faced the faery, who smiled wide again, and nodded.

England squinted, holding a finger to France as he focused on the clerk's lips.

"Room three-fifty… seven…"

France started, bringing England out of his thoughts.

"That's Matthew's room," he whispered, about to get up before England pulled him back into his chair. Some of France's coffee splashed onto his hand, and he flinched. "We need to—"

"We can't confront the faery in the open," England told him. "Out best bet is—"

"Alfred?!"

Everyone froze and spun around as Italy ran up towards the faery. Whispers spun around the room, Netherlands acknowledging that the faery looked like he could be related to Alfred. Overall, everyone was puzzled over Italy's outburst. Mexico said the faery’s hair looked similar “but... not” to Alfred’s; Puerto Rico said he could see the faery’s eyes were too dark of a blue even from across the room. England almost wanted to see what the faery’s glamour looked like, to see what they were all talking about.

Italy slid to a stop just shy of running straight into the faery, but they smiled as though they hadn’t noticed. They actually looked happy, not looking to charm as they had with the man at the front desk.

“Oh.” Italy deflated and took a step back as Hana Tomango started barking. “Sorry. You looked kinda like my friend.”

Swearing softly under his breath, Finland handed Sweden his coffee to get a better hold of his small dog. He brought Hana Tomango up to whisper to him to be quiet but stopped as he stared at the faery, pale eyes wide.

The faery noticed, red blooming over their cheeks.

A faery that felt embarrassment? England had never met such a creature; the fae were known for their shamelessness.

“No need to apologize,” the faery said, and France pulled England up, telling him they needed to get to Canada’s room before the faery did.

England agreed and followed, both leaving their drinks behind.

“Changeling?” France asked as they headed to the stairs. It would be faster than the moody elevator.

“One bad at its job, if so,” England commented under his breath. “It’s rather piss-poor at glamour.”

“Finland?”

“His dog.” England sighed. “Looking between the ears of a barking dog can reveal a ghost’s presence as well as low-magic fae, like nixies or sprites. But that one looked more like a higher-powered fae, maybe elf, dryad, firebird or selkie or siren or... .”

“Or?” France prodded, noticing England’s sudden pallor.

“No, I don’t think he’d be a redcap. Siren, most likely. It’d explain the feathers, though more elves have been taking on animal characteristics, sometimes mixing them—you know, fangs and wolf-like tail but also ram horns.”

“Redcap? You mean like—?”

“Yes,” England interrupted, not wanting France to mention his name, even the ridiculous one he’d been calling him since first tricking him to stay by his side those centuries ago. “They can take on animal characteristics, too, and he chose that one, so no one would suspect him of being dangerous.”

Not entirely a lie.

They reached the third floor, and England opened the door.

Canada was leaving his room as they arrived.

“You didn’t kill him yet, have you?” he joked as they approached, and England and France looked at each other, confused.

“Who?” France asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Al.” Canada leaned against the doorframe, hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He was probably fiddling with something, probably his fidget cube. “He texted me earlier with someone’s phone. Said he lost his and was on his way. I was about to go down to meet him.”

“There’s someone here, but I really don’t think—”

“Mattie.”

Glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, Canada stood suddenly, purple-tinted blue eyes wide.

England whirled around and froze.

The faery’s voice had been filled with relief, and the look on their face was like they weren’t sure whether or not the scene in front of them was real.

Closer, England could see that their irises were so large that the whites could hardly be seen. They were summer sky-blue around the edges, mint green radiating out around almond-shaped pupils. He could also better-recognize that pair of glasses—the pair America had been wearing in his Instagram selfie he’d posted when he first arrived at  Gardermoen. Freckles decorated his straight-bridged nose and high cheekbones, features mirrored on Canada’s face, along with the sharp jaw that saw so few whiskers that they could be plucked instead of shaved.

“Alfred?” England asked slowly and softly, barely a breath.

France and Canada looked at him as though he were insane, but when the faery’s gaze shifted to him, his smile cemented it. This was, somehow, America.

England stepped forward and shook off France when he grabbed his sleeve. “What the bloody hell happened to you?”

His heart thudded inside his chest. This couldn’t happen. What did this mean? How would this affect how America interacted with them? Was he truly  _ still  _ representative of the United States of America, if he wasn’t human anymore?

Eyes shiny with building tears, America’s smile fell. His eyes went downcast, hair shifting so it shadowed his face.

“I gave away my name,” he said, so low that England barely heard and first thought he’d heard him incorrectly. “So he took me.” He looked up and turned, looking down the hall. “Can… could we go into the room to talk?”

“No.” France’s voice was firm, and this time, he succeeded in pulling England back. “You don’t even  _ sound  _ like Alfred. Give us one reason to trust you.”

He was right. About America’s voice, anyway. The tone was slightly different, the accent lilting more, almost singing and cradling vowels with care. A Seelie Court accent, England was sure.

America leveled France with a cool gaze that made him flinch, but France stood firm. Canada remained quiet, watching and listening as he took in America’s appearance. He didn’t have True Sight, so what he was seeing was what the others had seen down in the lobby. The “too dark” eyes and “similar but not” hair.

“You kept pressed edelweiss flowers in your journal,” America stated calmly. “One flower for each day you’d spent with Switzerland before he left to help me; you followed later. In your journal was a love letter pasted on the inside of the front cover, also from Switzerland.”

France’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, so America continued:

“However, you told me it was from a woman you met in Paris before travelling to help me. You told me her name was Adèle, but three weeks later, you slipped up and called her Victoire instead. It was Prussia who finally told me it was actually from Switzerland, making sure he was loud enough so you’d hear him and feel embarrassed, though you pretended to be preoccupied with cooking stewed squirrel.”

France was pale. “You shouldn’t know all that.”

He was adamant that this couldn’t be America. England understood, but if they were to come up with a plan, they needed to get into a room, so they could speak in private. Anyone could pass by anytime now.

“You asked for one reason to believe me,” America replied, and a shiver crawled up England’s spine.

A faery statement, in a faery accent.

More and more questions piled upon one-another in England’s mind.

“Let’s hear him out,” Canada declared, tone implying he wasn’t about to argue.

He unlocked his room’s door and let them all in, announcing he was going to call room service.

“This might take a while,” he sighed as England shut the door behind him, keeping America between him and France. “A-Al…” There was a question in Canada’s voice that made America flinch. “Um, sit there, please.”

Canada motioned towards an armchair between the desk and window, and America nodded once and followed the order, tail moving around America’s legs, so he didn’t sit on it.

“You gave away your name,” said England after Canada finished ordering them all food. “To whom? And how does that explain…?”

America’s smile was like they were sharing an inside joke, but it fell soon after as he looked at the carpet. “I got my name back. After that, I worked hard as I could to return.”

“You got your name back in two days?” England asked, incredulous.

Now was America’s turn to lapse into silence, eyes wide.

“Two days?” His voice was small and shook. “Only two days passed here?”

“Three?” Canada mused. “I tried texting you after I got to the airport, but you never replied. France found out you’d checked in, but none of us heard a word.”

Swallowing, America closed in eyes, skin paling as his sharp nails dug into the wood of the chair’s arms. His tail twitched, showing the raw emotion he was holding back as a tear escaped and slid down his cheek.

“How much time had passed in Faerie?” England asked carefully. Time was funny when passing through one realm to the next. One night in one could be twenty years in another.

America swallowed again, and his eyes remained closed. “A century.”

A century. A century in Faerie. England wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially with one’s will belonging to one of the Folk upon entering.

“Who did you give your name to?” England asked.

“I took it back,” America replied, tone firm as he met England’s eyes.

“So you said.” England’s heartbeat sped up. “But  _ who  _ did you originally give it to?”

Something about his tone made America smile sadly.

“You seem to know,” he said, and England noticed that his canines—top and bottom—were sharp, though not as long as Romania’s fangs. “Just how long has it been since you have last seen your green-furred friend?”

“Three days,” England whispered.

America laughed without humor. “You should not have trusted him enough to give him back his name, but you had already figured that out.”


	2. Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part about the ashes is borrowed from Holly Black's short story "Virgin" in the collection The Poison Eaters and Other Stories.

This was too weird.

This person… Canada didn’t want to believe it was America.

He couldn’t be. He had his face and glasses, but his eyes were larger, like he was wearing circle lenses. The irises were more indigo than blue; sunlight coming in from the window reflected off them and turned them bright purple, almost as bright as Russia’s eyes.

His posture was too formal, spine ramrod straight instead of slouched in the chair with one hand keeping his head propped up. He didn’t even tap his foot or bounce his knee as he usually did. He didn’t ramble; he was practically mute compared to America. Not to mention his accent. It sounded a little like that time when Denmark attempted to mimic Ireland’s south-western accent to tease her a few months ago, though not quite.

Canada really could not pin the accent to any specific region he knew of, though he’d be the first to admit that he didn’t have the best ear for such things.

And his hair… it was almost to his chin, the cut more similar to Switzerland’s but if he parted it to the side as America usually did. It was too light, closer to Canada’s corn silk shade of blond than America’s sandy shade that teetered at the edge of brunette in winter. He had America’s cowlick, but it was too long, like the rest of his hair, and it bent backwards rather than to the side.

He was claiming to have been in this other world for a century when only three days had passed here. It was all too weird and ridiculous to be true. Canada wanted to laugh but couldn’t.

“I’ll order us something to eat,” Canada heard himself say as he got up from his bed and went to the phone. “Since we’ll be here for a while.”

He was too out of it to know if it was France or England who replied that that sounded like a good idea.

“I’m not too sure myself,” said the thing masquerading as America. “The… the changes were slow, and I can’t really remember when exactly they begun.”

He sounded embarrassed, akin to a teenager trying to explain his body changing to his parents.

Canada stopped listening again when the man on the other end of the line got his attention. Canada apologized and gave him the order: a reuben with fries for himself, potato dumplings with ham and spring vegetables for England, a pasta dish for France, and a hamburger. It’s what America would order; burgers were his go-to for comfort food. He also ordered krumkake for dessert, since America had a huge sweet tooth.

Parts of Canada’s brain continued to war. This couldn’t be America, but he knew there was more to this world, even if he couldn’t see all of it. The very existence of the Nations was supernatural, as far as he was concerned, and while he never rested on one side of the fence for long when it came to believing in an all-powerful deity, he at least toyed with the idea of there being other worlds.

England, France, Ireland, and Norway could all see faeries; Philippines, Columbia, and Indonesia occasionally saw monsters; and even as skeptical as America usually was (depending on his mood, anyway), he could see ghosts. Same with Australia, Mexico, and Belarus, and even Germany once admitted to having seen a ghost when agreeing to spend the night at the Lizzie Borden House when visiting America back when they dated in the early 2000s.

And Canada had learned the hard way not to challenge Romania to prove that he was a real vampire.

Romania had apologized profusely afterwards, but Canada still got nightmares on occasion.

“You at least have to have an idea,” England groaned, and Canada sat on the bed again, though his eyes kept drifting towards the window to avoid the stranger’s gaze.

From the stool that had been in front of the vanity, France looked at Canada, reading him more clearly than the younger man had comfort with.

“Drop the glamour,” France told the stranger. “Arthur and I can already see past it anyway, and Matthew deserves to see.”

_ But do I  _ want  _ to? _ thought Canada, but he faced forward as the stranger sighed and nodded, eyes downcast.

The change was instant, and Canada nearly fell back onto the ground. Thankfully, England felt it happening and was able to turn and catch him, pulling him up by the wrists as red blossomed over the stranger’s cheeks.

His hair was the right sandy shade, but for the thick gleaming strands of gold that Canada suddenly realized were long, thin feathers. The hair fell to his waist, and his skin was a couple shades darker with the freckles more pronounced, like he’d been spending all day every day under the sun.

Movement caught Canada’s attention, and he felt dizzy. The stranger even had a goddamn  _ tail _ . It flicked like a cat's might when it was nervous, long fur that matched the stranger’s hair brushing along the carpet.

Then Canada finally met his gaze, staring at the thin, cat-like pupils surrounded by a halo of mint green, the irises so big that the sclera were almost completely obscured. There was a ring of familiar blue around the edges, but it was thin, almost snuffed out by the green.

“Only you would look more like you like this than in disguise,” he blurted, and America’s blush deepened as his jaw set, eyes narrowed. A corner of his mouth quirked upwards, however, giving him away.

He looked relieved, almost. Relieved Canada believed him, or at least wasn’t running away.

England snorted and France let out a loud exhale.

“Start from the beginning,” England said after a moment. “From after you took that selfie in the airport.”

America looked up at the ceiling and scratched the side of his neck. The action pulled on the collar of his tunic, momentarily revealing part of a scar, white and pink to show that it was somewhat recent. Even with their healing abilities, a cut like what the scar suggested wouldn’t heal that much within the span of just three days. Canada wasn’t entirely sure about the century claim, but he was more inclined to believe now that America had lived somewhere longer than the rest of them were living here.

_ My head hurts _ , Canada thought.

He didn’t want to think about how so much time could pass in one place when so little passed elsewhere. Sure, time was wibbly-wobbly, but this sounded ridiculous.

_ Ridiculous as Al having a fucking tail? _ part of Canada’s mind laughed at him, and he couldn’t argue.

“I don’t even remember taking a selfie in the airport,” America murmured after a moment, but he sighed and looked at the ground again, hand still on the side of his neck. “I do remember taking pictures of water and forest. I travelled to the Seven Sisters Waterfall with my camera and an overnight bag, in case I wanted to take pictures at night and return to this hotel in the morning. I guess, then, I had already dropped off my suitcase here.”

Canada nodded, remembering America sending him a message over Instagram that he might be a day late. It had been cloudy when he arrived, which hadn’t made for spectacular photos, and since these meetings weren’t part of official business, he hadn’t seen reason to hurry back when the next day called for clear skies.

America described how he’d set up camp near the abandoned Knivsflå farm, and someone knocked on the door soon as he said he’d heard rustling in a nearby tree.

America changed again as France got up, saying he’d get the door. America’s hair was closer to the right shade this time, but it was still in the wrong style. And his eyes were ice blue, closer to Germany’s than his own.

Once the hotel employee was gone and France had wheeled the cart by the foot of the bed, England asked America, “You… don’t remember what you looked like. Do you?”

Looking down again as he dropped the glamour, America shook his head. “I assume my face hasn’t changed much… besides my eyes.”

The other three were quiet, then France placed the plate with the burger and fries onto the end table next to America’s chair.

“Probably haven’t eaten one in a while.” His joking tone fell flat; he seemed to be having an even harder time taking this in than Canada was.

Canada moved to the foot of the bed, closer to England, so he could reach the cart, and France moved his stool forward as well.

Smiling, America shifted in his chair, tail moving with him. He grabbed a fry and continued with the story:

“I ignored the sound at first. I was used to hearing animals around me when I went camping.”

America popped the fry into his mouth, but as he started chewing, he doubled over and started coughing, England and Canada nearly dropping their own food to rush over and see what was wrong.

Ash dusted America’s sleeve as he coughed, and England swore.

“Well,” he said as America’s coughing started to subside, “at least we know you’re still at least  _ partially  _ human.”

“What do you mean?” Canada and France asked in unison.

France was returning from the bathroom with a damp rag, and he moved the cart slightly as he wiped America’s sleeve for him and then handed him the cloth.

Still watching America, Canada returned to the bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to start eating his sandwich just yet, even though he’d skipped breakfast this morning in order to sleep in.

Picking up his fork from the carpet and letting France take it to wash it in the bathroom sink, England said, “Humans can’t eat human food again after eating the fae’s food. Some kind of magic turns the human food into ash when they try to. An old curse set by a fae monarch from long ago, I was told, though I’m unsure of the specifics.”

“What  _ can _ I eat, then?” America whispered, tone much too even.

His eyes shone; he always had been easily brought to tears. It was something Canada used to tease him about, but he couldn’t find the energy to bring any lightness to the conversation.

They were immortal, but they still felt pain, starvation included. It was a horrible way to die and arguably even more horrible to survive, incapable of receiving even release, eventually unable to even sleep through the pain and constant cold, though the loss of energy made remaining awake a torture in itself.

“I met a man,” said England after a while, taking his fork back from France, “centuries ago. He’d returned to this world from Faery before his current self had even been taken. I thought him a doppelganger and had Buttercup—the unicorn that lives with me; his daughter is the one I gifted you, Alfred—well, I had Buttercup help me imprison the poor bloke. It took days before I finally believed him; a faery wouldn’t know how to accurately portray hunger pains.”

“Are you going to skip to the part where you have a point?” asked Canada, and America nodded as France motioned for his boyfriend to hurry up.

“The only food he could consume was food one of the faeries staying with me prepared for him,” said England. “Any food or drink prepared or even simply gathered by human hands—even his own—turned to ash in his mouth and nearly suffocated him, especially as he got hungrier and more desperate.” He looked at America, who frowned, having already put two and two together. “But you’re not completely human. Gathering or hunting your own food should work.”

“Should I go now to ask Norway for a hunting license?” America deadpanned. “I’ve grown used to hunting my own meals, but I think I may run into issues doing so in this world, away from my home’s soil, at least.”

“Just one problem after another,” France groused, face going to his hands. “Our bosses won’t allow us to extend our stays here indefinitely, but not only do you need to get your glamour right so that you actually look like  _ you _ , but there’s your accent to attend to, unless you’re capable of glamouring that as well.”

Mouth twitching, America nodded. “I can, but just a visual glamour takes plenty of energy that cannot be replenished easily if I do not have easy access to food and drink.”

“I can help you with your accent,” Canada volunteered. “I’ve worked in accent training classes back home, usually when I’m in Toronto or Vancouver, and despite your teasing, our accents are almost identical.”

“Our best option at the moment,” England admitted. “Al, tell me again where you’d set up camp. Francis and I will go there to search for your things. I’m guessing you would have brought your passport and cellphone with you as well as your camera. Your room key as well, if you did indeed check in here before heading out. You and Matthew will be fine here.”

_ I have a date with Mathias tonight _ , Canada almost said, but he bit his tongue and nodded. This was admittedly more important, and Denmark would understand and even offer to help.

Once he was done freaking out, anyway, though Canada wasn’t sure how many people America was okay with knowing about this.

Canada’s cell phone vibrated on the nightstand as Canada fetched his laptop at England’s request. He logged into it for them and handed it to England, who brought up a map as America moved to the bed, so he could see the screen. He combed his hair back as he did, and Canada noticed that his ear was narrower and sharply pointed. It was also pierced, three brown-red feathers hanging from a silver hoop on his lobe and what looked like curved, twin fangs creating an upside down  _ U _ behind it. What looked like a small patch of opalescent scales kept the three feathers connected on the silver hoop.

Swallowing, Canada told himself it was just jewelry and picked up his phone as America tried to direct England to where he’d been camping before ending up in Faery.

_ Ready for tonight? _ Denmark had sent.  _ Hope you don’t mind, but Vlad overheard me make the reservations, so he and Sigurd are joining us. :/ _

Canada smiled at the name for Romania. His human name—his current one anyway—was actually currently Valeriu, but a lot of people liked to call him Vlad, especially now that the show  _ Castlevania _ had become so popular.

“Mathias?” France sang, and Canada cleared his throat and set his phone down. He’d answer later, once he knew what to answer.

“I’d rather not stay here for the night if I have to watch the two of you,” said America, looking at Canada out of the corner of his eye.

Blood rushing to Canada’s cheeks, he sputtered, “We’ve only been dating for a couple weeks! He has his own room.”

America blinked. “Oh, I thought it was longer.”

Remembering the disparity between their lived times, Canada sighed and plopped back down onto the bed. “Whatever, and yes, it was Mathias. We were supposed to get together for dinner tonight, and apparently Norway and Romania were going to join us.”

“Valeriu is constantly trying to get those two to talk more,” England sighed. “It’s not even like they hate each other. They just prefer different circles, and using a date for getting them to talk if they  _ did  _ hate each other doesn’t sound like good form.”

“Romania isn’t the most adept at social graces,” France pointed out as he started eating his penne pasta.

“They like to play up the ‘hate’ in front of Romania,” Canada said. “Norway doesn’t admit it, but he thinks it’s cute he reacts so strongly to wanting them to get along. Mathias just thinks it’s funny. But that’s not really the most important thing here.”

“Right.” England returned his attention to the computer, but America turned to look at Canada, tail curling with his movement.

He frowned when England jumped as the fur on his tail ended up sweeping along England’s legs, but he did immediately lower his tail back to the floor and kept it still.

“When are you supposed to meet him?” he asked. “It could test how well I’m able to keep a better glamour in place, if you don’t protest against me joining.”

France met Canada’s gaze, one eyebrow raised. “It’s not the worst idea, though I’ll apologize now for him acting as a fifth wheel.” He ignored America’s glare. “But Norway and Romania at least are bound to be the next ones to find out about this. Unfortunately, his sudden reappearance means he’ll end up stealing everyone’s attention.”

Swallowing a sigh, Canada nodded. He figured, and at least America had the decency to look abashed. Their relationship had been shaky on occasions due to him pushing Canada out of the spotlight to keep it on himself, especially when it came to their birthdays.

Though, for once, America actually didn’t  _ want _ the spotlight on him. He could hardly afford it right now, when he couldn’t even remember what he was supposed to look like.

For once, America was turning to him to lead, and even as he felt guilty for enjoying the thought, Canada smiled.

“Then hurry up and help them find where you were,” said Canada. “Dinner’s in nine hours, and something tells me getting you to relearn your accent is going to take longer than that.”

America narrowed his eyes again but agreed before turning back around to help England.

Still smiling and not meeting France’s knowing gaze, Canada picked up his cell phone and texted Denmark:

_ Still on, and that’s actually great! ‘Cause I didn’t know how to tell you that Alfred’s joining us… _ .


	3. Song Cut Short

Someone pounded on the door as Canada tried to walk through America making his vowels more relaxed for what felt like the millionth time.

Rubbing his temples, Canada got up from the stool that France had been sitting in. He told America to go wash up in the bathroom while he talked to Denmark.

“You could tell him the truth,” America suggested, moving the laptop to the bed as he got up and stretched. He spoke slowly, accent almost normal—almost.

He didn’t put his glamour back up, and Canada turned and stood by the door as he watched him, arms crossed. “Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

“I think it would be easier for you than lying.” America walked towards the bathroom, and Canada noticed that even his stride was different.

He walked in shorter strides and seemed to be using the “fox walking” technique they’d use when taking hikes in the Rockies, so they could avoid making noise and scaring away birds before America could take pictures of them.

He shut the bathroom door behind him with a soft  _ click _ , and Canada sighed as the knocking resumed.

Denmark’s hand was poised in the air when Canada opened the door. He smiled as he met his boyfriend’s ocean blue eyes and stepped aside to let him in.

“So what did you mean—?”

Canada silenced Denmark with a deep kiss as he kicked the door closed and wrapped his arms around his neck. Denmark’s eyes fluttered shut as he gave in, but it wasn’t long before he pulled away and asked—this time in a smaller voice—what Canada had meant by his text.

When he’d finished asking, Denmark turned to look towards the bathroom at the sound of water hitting the tub. It seemed America had taken a preference to baths over showers.

“Is that him in there?” Denmark asked, meeting Canada’s eyes again. His brow furrowed as he recognized something in Canada’s eyes.

Swallowing, Canada’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, and he led Denmark to the chair and sat on the foot of the bed. As Denmark sat down, he glanced at the uneaten burger and fries on the stand next to the chair.

“He’s letting it get cold?” Denmark laughed, taking one of the fries and dipping it into the small cup of ketchup.

Once Denmark swallowed a couple of fries, Canada replied, “He couldn’t finish it.” He tried for a shrug, but his nails were digging into the bed’s duvet.

“Couldn’t finish?” Denmark looked at the burger again. “It looks like he didn’t even touch it….” He saw the look on Canada’s face again and his nails digging into the white cloth and got on a knee in front of him, trying to pry Canada’s hands away to grasp his hands instead. “Matthew, what’s wrong?”

He got onto the bed and pulled Canada close and told him to start at the beginning.

The water in the bathroom stopped running, and suddenly, it felt too quiet.

“I got a text from Al this morning,” Canada said, then sighed. “Um, when he first got here a couple days ago, he left to camp at Seven Sisters Waterfall, so he could get good pictures of it.”

He leaned against Denmark, feeling calmer as humming filled the room. His mouth turned upwards in a smile as Denmark’s fingers ran through his hair.

“He…”

The humming became singing, though instead of words, there were just notes that stretched and spun through the air, wrapping around Canada and pulling him closer to Denmark until he was in his lap. His heart beat faster, a ball of heat spinning and pulsing within his chest. It sunk into his stomach, growing hotter as it slowly sunk even lower as his nerves ignited.

Denmark’s face was flushed, and his hand that had been running through Canada’s hair moved to the back of his neck as his other hand moved around Canada’s thigh and hip, his cool fingers sending shivers up Canada’s spine as they traced circles along the small of his back and inched upwards to bring his shirt up as well. He kicked off his shoes, skin hot under Canada’s touch.

Their lips met, Canada pushing Denmark onto the bed as his shirt was pulled off and tossed to the side. As Canada ran his teeth over Denmark’s bottom lip, he started unbuttoning Denmark’s shirt, smiling against his jaw as he heard the older Nation gasping as Canada moved downwards, leaving butterfly kisses along Denmark’s neck and collarbone. He chuckled as Denmark hardened and tried to help him get his shirt off.

Instead, Canada pushed his hands down by the wrists, keeping them pinned down on either side of him as he lightly bit Denmark on the crook of the neck. He slowly drew back, grazing his teeth along his skin before going back to kiss and suck, pausing to lightly chastise him for being impatient when Denmark tried to raise his hands again, nearly begging to touch Canada.

As the mark Canada left on Denmark started to become visible, he finally returned to leaving kisses down his torso and let go of Denmark’s wrists to finish unbuttoning his shirt.

But when Canada reached his boyfriend’s belt, hands trembling as heat consumed his body, he became aware again of the singing. The fog of lust started to roll over his mind once more, but Canada shook his head, ignoring Denmark when he asked if he was okay.

“Do you want to stop?” Denmark asked, even though his eyes were glassy. He panted, trembling as he sat up. “God…” He grabbed his head. “Oh, God, Matt…. What…?”

“Singing,” Canada finally managed, and Denmark gave a nod.

“Since… when…” Denmark gasped again and shivered.

He licked his lips, and his face was red. Canada imagined his face had to be the same shade, with how hot he felt.

“... does…,” Denmark managed to continue, “... Al… sing—”

Canada shot up and looked towards the bathroom; the singing was coming from there.

“Matth—?”

Still shaking as his body ached to be touched, Canada banged on the bathroom door with his fist. The singing stopped abruptly, and Denmark groaned from the bed as Canada fell to his knees, suddenly cold as he gasped again. This time, though, it was from exhaustion; he felt as though he’d run a 10k race.

“Al,” Canada managed, unable to raise his voice but knowing America could hear him, “knock it off.  _ Now _ .”

Silence, then a reluctant, “If you insist.”

“Accent,” Canada reminded him through gritted teeth, new heat claiming him as his hands shook with anger.

He couldn’t believe America would do that! Canada didn’t really know what that singing was, but it reminded him of the stories of siren songs, and using magic like that was akin to America drugging him and Denmark!

America sighed loudly and repeated his statement but more slowly. It was a little closer to how he used to speak.

Canada collapsed onto the bed when he reached it, rolling over to face Denmark, who was beginning to look more lucid now as confusion clouded his eyes.

“What the hell was  _ that _ ?” he asked, pushing himself up to glance towards the bathroom.

“Alfred,” Canada grumbled, pushing his glasses up as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “He… God, I don’t know how to explain this.”

“Go back to the waterfalls,” Denmark suggested, brushing Canada’s bangs away from his face. “You said he wanted to camp and take pictures. Then what?”

When Canada didn’t answer, Denmark lifted Canada’s chin so they were meeting one-another’s eyes again.

“I’ve walked into Sigurd casting spells and have been his guinea pig enough times to believe whatever happened.” Denmark looked around him at the bathroom again. “Especially after... that. What, did Al steal a horny mermaid’s voice?”

He tried for a laugh, but it fell when Canada only frowned.

After several beats of silence, Canada finally answered, “A faery tricked him into giving him his name, whatever that means, and he’s been in the faeries’ world. That’s why he’s been missing.”

Denmark blinked, and when Canada fell silent again, he told him to continue.

Pushing himself up to sit cross-legged on the bed, Canada waited as Denmark followed suit.

“I don’t know how—Al doesn’t either—but somehow… Alfred actually  _ became _ a faery. Did you hear about the person that walked into the lobby earlier?”

Brow furrowed again, Denmark nodded. “Yeah, Abel told me. He’d been downstairs coming back from breakfast with Belgium. Said Italy got confused and thought it was Alfred when it looked nothing like him.”

Canada nodded. “It  _ was _ Alfred. He changed while he was in the faeries’ world, and while it’s only been a couple days here, a hundred  _ years _ passed over there. Al… forgot what he used to look like. I had to show him pictures on his Instagram earlier to remind him. That’s why he looked so different downstairs.”

“But… wait.” Denmark held his hands up, and the look on his face was a cross between confusion and like he was trying to figure out if he was being punked or not. “He  _ forgot _ what he looked like? But then…”

“He looks different in general,” Canada sighed. “His face is the same, but his eyes look kinda like cat eyes, and his eyes are mostly green. His hair is really long, and his ears are pointed—”

He turned to look back at the bathroom door when he heard the sound of the tub draining.

“And the burger?” Denmark asked. “Honestly, if he passed that up willingly, I’d suggest interrogating him, ‘cause that’s not Alfred.”

Even as his eyes stung with tears, Canada laughed. “It wasn’t willingly,” he managed as his laughter subsided. “When he tried to eat a French fry, it turned into ash in his mouth. Arthur says it’s what happens to humans when they try to eat human food after having eaten faery food, so that means Al is still human, or, well, partly. Even he doesn’t really know how he changed into… what he is now, let alone  _ what _ he actually is.”

“So there’s a chance he could change back?”

“Maybe?”

“Okay, and England knows? I’m guessing that means France does, too.”

Canada nodded. “They went to Al’s campsite to find his stuff. But when they saw Al down in the lobby, they saw through the… um”—Canada moved his hands as he searched for the word—“glamour.”

Realization dawned on Denmark. “And Sigurd and Vlad probably will, too.”

“Probably Belarus, too, at the meeting,” Canada sighed. “And Al isn’t too excited about a lot of people finding out about this.”

The bathroom door opened, and Denmark’s eyes widened as his mouth fell open. It looked like he was about to say something, but nothing came out.

Turning, Canada saw that America was wearing the same tunic and duster he’d been wearing earlier, and his tail twitched anxiously behind him even as his expression remained impassive. It really was weird seeing him without a smile on his face, and Canada wondered if thinking that meant he was getting used to all the other changes—or if those changes simply made the change in America’s resting face all the more noticeable.

A second later, though, America looked like his old self, and Canada decided it was the first one. Seeing his brother look as he always had but still with that expressionless look on his face was even more surreal.

“Hello,” America said after a while, and Denmark finally blinked and closed his mouth. “I do not think I would mind Norway knowing about me. I may need his help finding something I will be able to eat.”

As if on cue, America’s stomach growled, and his freckled cheeks reddened. Denmark laughed, and Canada let out a breath in relief.

“They’re probably waiting for us,” he said to Denmark, who wiped his eyes and nodded.

“Alright.” Denmark got off the bed and walked towards America. “We better get going, then, so you don’t starve.”

He tried to grab America around the neck, other hand raised to give him a noogie, but America quickly ducked and spun around. He straightened and coughed to try covering up that he’d started to growl, cheeks getting redder as he crossed his arms over his chest and tried to make himself smaller.

“Oh.” Denmark lowered his hand and tried for a chuckle as Canada got to his feet. “I… guess you’ve been through a lot.”

America only shrugged, and Canada frowned. He couldn’t imagine what hell his brother had been put through. It had sounded like he hadn’t even had control over himself when he gave away his name. Whatever he’d gone through, though, he didn’t look ready to talk about it. He felt guilty for earlier, relishing in the idea of America needing to defer to him, needing to avoid the spotlight he’d once craved.

The glamour might make America look like his old self, but anyone would be able to tell by looking at him that he wasn’t the same.

“You might want to disguise yourself for a while,” Canada suggested, and America looked at him, puzzled. “Some of the others might still be in the lobby. Seeing you all of a sudden will get you a lot of attention, and we’d probably never get to the restaurant.”

“Ah.” America changed again, his eyes and hair brown. His hair was longer, just past his shoulders, and curly. Even his face had changed to look more rectangular. “Should I leave first? If I walk down with the two of you, someone will notice and may stop you to ask questions.”

“Accent,” Canada reminded him, smiling when America stuck his tongue out at him.

“Sounds like a good idea,” said Denmark as he finished sending a text to Norway.

He then rebuttoned his shirt, and Canada went to fetch something nicer than his  _ My Hero Academia  _ T-shirt from the closet as he assured America that they would meet with him outside soon.

As Canada started to put on a mauve dress shirt, America left, and Denmark watched the door as he leaned against the wall by the closet.

“Hey, Matthew?” he asked, voice low as he continued watching the door.

“Hmm?”

“You said Al texted you earlier?”

“Yeah, to meet him in the lobby, and he’d forgotten the name of the hotel.”

“And England and France are out looking for his stuff?” His eyes met Canada’s as he finished buttoning the shirt. “Like his cell phone?”

“It was from an unknown number. Al said in the text he’d lost his phone and had borrowed someone else’s.”

“Abel said the guy he saw was bribing the guy at the front desk.”

Blinking, Canada paused before he finished buttoning his shirt. “Hmm.”

“I’m guessing it was to find out your room number, but why do that if he was planning on you meeting him in the lobby? And if he was borrowing someone’s phone, why text instead of call?”

Gaze falling to the floor, Canada thought. “I… Well, he could have been worried I’d wonder about how he talks. You must’ve noticed.”

“I did, but…”

After a moment, Canada nodded. “I know. Something about that still seems… odd, I guess. I don’t know if Al can handle too many more interrogations today, though.”

“I won’t bring it up to him,” Denmark promised. “I’ll mention it to Kris, though. He might have an idea.” He shrugged. “Could be nothing. Maybe he got impatient. It’s still Al, but… I don’t know. Might as well get another opinion.”

Canada drew in a long breath and sighed. “I guess. But I’m sure it’s just ‘cause he was impatient, like you said.” He took Denmark’s hand, which made him break out into a huge grin. “Now, let’s put our shoes on and head down. I’m getting hungry, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably imagine this for Mattie's and Al's lesson:
> 
> Matthew: Pop.  
> Al: Pop.  
> Matthew: Sicle.  
> Al: Sicle.  
> Matthew: Pop.  
> Al: Pop.  
> Matthew: Sicle.  
> Al: Sicle.  
> Matthew: Popsicle.  
> Al: biroufjweioufhnerk


	4. Suspicion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to rename Norway Sigurd. That's his name in my other fics; I don't know why I changed it for this one, and I usually name Latvia Krisjanis, and I don't want to accidentally confuse myself by having them both have "Kris" be the first part of their names.

The way Norway’s violet eyes followed America, still disguised as a curly-haired brunette, told Canada that he’d already seen straight through the glamour. Romania, however, followed his boyfriend’s gaze questionably, narrowing his eyes at America’s back as he made his way to the restroom. He could tell there was something off, whether by his own senses or simply by trusting Norway’s. Did he not have the Sight? Or maybe his wasn’t as strong as Norway’s or England’s.

“Hey, you two,” Denmark greeted as he and Canada approached the table. He pulled out the chair next to Norway for Canada to sit, Romania now watching them as he smiled. “Sorry we’re running late.”

“I’ve gotten used to it by now,” Norway muttered as he stood up, ignoring Romania when he hissed at him to be nice. “I’ll be right back—”

“He’ll be back out in a moment,” Canada told him as he sat, trying not to flinch away from Norway’s sudden look of surprise. “This would be easier if Arthur had told you before he and Francis left.”

Taking his own seat across from Canada, Denmark said, “I already texted him that Al’s joining us.”

Norway slowly lowered to his chair, but before he could even open his mouth, Romania blurted, “ _ Alfred _ ?  _ Jones _ ? The idiot finally showed up? But what—”

America returned, looking like his old self, though his smile looked too shy, awkward. The confidence he usually exhumed had been extinguished, and Canada’s heart felt heavy.

Denmark pushed the seat at the foot of the table, between him and Canada, out for him, making sure to welcome him for the benefit of Norway, who stared at America with narrowed eyes.

Before either he or Romania could say anything, though, the waitress arrived, and Norway’s expression switched back to its usual impassive look.

Denmark ordered a beer for himself, Canada ordering the same as he caught America looking at him. He couldn’t eat anything here, but could he drink something? Surely, water at least wouldn’t turn to ash in his mouth.

Canada ordered that for America, ignoring Romania, who kept glancing between the North American brothers, eyebrows raised.

The waitress promised to return to get food orders as well as more bread for the table.

“Who are you, really?” Norway demanded in a low voice.

His hands, resting on the table, were posed in a peculiar way; Canada wondered if it was a gesture for spell-casting. America seemed to think so, the way he looked down at Norway’s hands, his smile disappearing.

“Sig—”

Norway cut Denmark off: “I wouldn’t expect you to have seen through it.” He kept his eyes on America. “He has the looks of a halfling. What are you? Siren? Elf?”

The statement and guesses appeared to be more for Romania’s benefit, as he nodded in response. So, he  _ didn’t _ have the Sight, but when his nostrils flared, pupils dilating to where they nearly eclipsed his red irises, Canada knew he had to be smelling him. He didn’t know what Romania could glean from smelling America, but it seemed to give him some kind of information, the way his brow furrowed.

“We’ve seen him without the glamour.” Canada stifled a sigh of relief when he finally had Norway’s attention, though his violet eyes stayed on America. “And the waitress is coming back, so whatever you’re about to do, stop, please.”

Romania looked towards the kitchen and made a hand motion at Norway, who sighed and laid his hands flat on the table’s surface.

The waitress set down Alfred’s cup and pitcher of water—mineral, Canada realized; he should have specified flat water—last, and he looked up to offer her a dazzling smile that had her blushing even before he spoke.

“This is lovely; I’m glad to have our night here in your hands,” he said, accent wavering slightly but enough for Norway to notice.

His eyes narrowed again as his hands resumed their earlier position, and Romania mouthed at Canada, “What the fuck?”

The waitress, however, didn’t notice the others’ reactions, her face on fire as she thanked America for his compliment. She assured that she would work to the best of her ability to ensure their happiness and took out her notepad.

Since Denmark was the only one who’d been looking at a menu, he ordered for everyone. For America, he asked for  _ kjøttboller _ , and after the waitress left—blushing again when she turned back and America winked at her—Denmark assured Canada they could split the dish, since America couldn’t actually eat.

He then leaned back in his chair and looked from Norway to Romania and back, “Look, when Alfred went to Seven Sisters, he had a little run-in with—”

He looked back at America, laughing when Canada whispered an admonishment for flirting with someone while she was working.

America, for his credit, blushed as he glanced at the floor, and Norway laid his hands flat on the table again while Romania hummed and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Even in glamour, I’ve never known a faery to look abashed,” he commented, smiling when a corner of America’s mouth twitched. “Those things usually don’t seem to have the ability to feel embarrassment. It’d be like admitting they can be wrong.”

“Please continue,” Norway requested, after taking a sip of his beer. “I’d like to know how a ‘changeling’ as England calls them came to replace Mr. Jones and how Mr. Willams came to allow it.”

Romania sat up as America did, eyes narrowing in warning as his hands went to his knees as he readied himself to jump up if need be.

“Calm down,” Canada urged, placing a hand on America’s shoulder, and he leaned back in his chair. Romania eased up as well but kept his ruby eyes on America.

“I do not like having to keep proving that I am who I say,” America replied, frowning when Canada reminded him about his accent. “I do not want to repeat myself throughout the night.”

Romania tilted his head at America’s speech; even though he’d spoken the second part in a closer approximation to his usual accent, it sounded too formal.

“You need to learn how to talk like you used to,” Canada groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know you’re irritated, but if you want to keep what happened a secret, you’ll need to try harder.”

America grunted but didn’t argue. His bangs shifted over his eye as he looked back at Norway.

“Mint found me when I was camping,” he explained, and Romania leaned forward in interest. “Can I assume Arthur has told you about giving him back his name?”

Brow furrowed in thought, Norway nodded.

“Mint asked me to give him my name,” America said, and Norway’s eyes widened as Romania muttered what Canada assumed to be Romanian swear words. “The only time I have dealt with faeries before was the unicorn Arthur gave me, and even with her, I only left out food and water, seeing as I could not see her.”

“I thought you’d been leaving out food for stray cats,” Canada muttered before a swallow of beer. He looked to Norway and Romania. “Francis and Arthur should be where America remembered setting up camp. They’ve gone to retrieve his things, and Arthur wants to see if he can find more clues or information.”

“Mint?” Denmark asked, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

At the same time, Romania muttered, “You fed a unicorn _cat_ _food_?”

Norway answered Denmark, “He used to accompany Arthur, sometimes even to meetings. Mint is one name Arthur gave him. He’s what’s called a redcap, a faery that’s rather… bloodthirsty may be the best word. They enjoy killing—”

“More like it’s a biological need,” Romania said, then looked at Norway. “Sorry for interrupting,  _ iubițel _ .” He looked from Canada to Denmark. “Redcaps, from what I’ve heard,  _ have _ to kill, so long as they wear their an article of clothing or even sometimes jewelry, but usually a hat—”

“Which is red, I’m guessing,” Denmark muttered, scratching the side of his head.

Romania nodded when Norway took another long draw of beer, signaling for his boyfriend to continue.

“Dyed by their own blood, spelled to stay fresh, so you can tell when they’re close by the smell of blood. Supposedly, the caps are enchanted, so I’m guessing being a red cap is more like being turned into one, like being turned into a werewolf or vampire.” Romania’s blank expression chilled Canada, even though it was turned on America. “Would explain  _ your _ changes, but if you were wearing a red cap, Sigurd would have mentioned it, and I would have smelled your blood soon as you walked in. I know what it smells like.” He rolled his eyes at Canada’s and Denmark’s looks. “What? He bled all over himself after screwing up that prank we and Gil were going to do to Jett last year.”

Canada sighed heavily, remembering that prank. The disaster had postponed the meeting for nearly an hour, but the next day had been worse when Australia and Mexico had roped him into helping with a revenge prank on America, Prussia, and Romania. The three of them had ended up smelling like maple syrup and chili peppers for the next few days, and the meeting had needed to move to a new room.

“What the hell was Arthur doing with one of those things following him?” Denmark asked, wanting to move the subject along. He seemed as upset as Canada was at the idea of America being turned into some bloodthirsty creature.

Norway took back over: “It’s easier to take control of a redcap than most other fae. All you have to do is steal their cap, which is of course, easier said than done, but it’s not impossible, especially when you have the advantage of immortality.” He shrugged. “And for as long as the cap is in the hands of someone other than the redcap faery, the faery doesn’t feel the biological need to kill and even grows…” He paused, looking up as though he could find the word he wanted floating above him. “Docile, I guess. At first. Over time, they can grow more violent, disturbed, in a way. Killing has become their nature, and the longer they are without their cap and that need to kill, the more unnatural they feel. And Arthur had Mint’s cap in his possession for almost a century. And not only that, but he’d gone the extra mile and taken his name, too.”

“I doubt he had a plan,” said Romania, “other than to hit Arthur where it hurt.” He shrugged, and they quieted as their food arrived. He watched as Alfred handed his plate to Denmark, who took half of the food and gave the rest to Canada. “Not hungry?”

Canada looked to America, who answered, “Last time I tried to eat, the food turned to ash in my mouth. Arthur suggests it may be because I am still human, at least in part.” His stomach growled, and his cheeks reddened. “He thinks the curse only works on food  _ prepared _ by humans. So maybe hunting or gathering my own food could still allow me to eat.”

As the rest ate, Norway said he could take America to an area where he’d be able to hunt. It wasn’t far away, so he’d be able to travel back there when he was hungry, so long as he agreed to stick to small game. He said guns weren’t a good idea, since bullets typically had a lead core, and they weren’t sure how it would affect America’s ability to consume the meat.

America insisted that it was only cold iron that hurt him, to which Norway responded that they had no way of knowing how the iron was obtained. America relented, saying he hadn’t used a gun in years anyway and was capable of catching a hare or mink with his own hands.

“Years? Wha’d’you mean years?” asked Romania, swallowing audibly and smiling when Norway chided him for talking with his mouth full.

“What’s cold iron?” asked Denmark. “I thought that was just a fancy way poets like to call swords.”

“It’s been used that way,” said Norway, “but it’s really iron—often a blade, yes, but it could be anything—that’s been used by a human to kill another human in cold blood.”

“Are we going to ignore the ‘years’ part?” Romania questioned, motioning towards America with his hand, palm up. “He’s been gone two days!”

“You think I became this way overnight?” America asked, and Romania gave a dramatic shrug.

“Transformations can take as long as years, sure, or they can be as short as a few hours.”

“This took place slowly. I don’t even remember when the first changes occurred.”

Romania took a bite of his steak, which was charred along the outside but was rare. “So how long were you there?”

“A century.”

Romania coughed, bringing a napkin to his mouth, and Norway watched him with interest.

Canada remained quiet as he ate slowly. Denmark still looked like he was having trouble digesting all this, though he tried to act nonchalant. If Canada was honest, he was having trouble, too. It was too much to take in after just some hours. If a second America were to burst into the restaurant and proclaim that the faery sitting next to Canada and Denmark was nothing more than an imposter, Canada would believe him in an instant.

When he caught sight of Alfred moving, he watched out of the corner of his eye. America lifted the glass of mineral water to his lips and sipped. Water sloshed over his hand and onto the table as he set the glass back down, hand trembling as he brought the napkin to his mouth just in time to catch the ash as he started coughing, tears gathering in his eyes and catching his long lashes.

“Hmm….” Norway hummed as America finished coughing and wiped his mouth before anyone around them could notice the ash. “There is a stream not far from where I’m taking you. I have flasks in my car for when I go hiking or hunting. You should be able to gather water then.”

“I’m sorry, Al,” Canada said, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“I should be able to manage.”

While technically not a lie, it sounded like one.

* * *

“Is that Mr. Am—Mr. Jones?” Latvia asked in a small voice as Estonia ordered a Solo.

Turning around in his chair, Lithuania combed his dark hair back from his face. His breath caught as he caught sight of the five people leaving the restaurant.

A girl that Lithuania recognized as one of the restaurant’s waitresses rushed over to them, and America turned, stopping.

It was definitely America. Lithuania recognized that easy smile, which he’d picked up from France, much as the younger nation denied it.

Canada was a few steps closer to the door and said something that America ignored as he spoke to the waitress, who was blushing and practically bouncing on her heels.

The distance and angle wasn’t optimal for reading lips, but America seemed to be saying something about beauty and the night. Was he inviting the waitress somewhere? Seriously? He suddenly returns after almost three days of no one knowing his whereabouts, and he’s asking a girl to spend the night with him?

Then, Norway popped seemingly out of nowhere, arms looped around America’s neck and chin resting on his shoulder. He said something along the lines of “We need to be going.”

Lithuania caught only the word  _ impatient _ in the sentence he said after than, but he could see Norway continue, “You’ve kept me waiting long enough,” as he raised a hand to gently pull America’s face so they were facing each other.

What the hell? Norway was wearing a smile that Lithuania had only seen when the man tried to disguise his anger, but what was he angry about, and what was with the way he handled America?

The girl froze, face going even redder. The angle made it impossible to read her lips, but it looked like she was apologizing, with the way she waved her hands in front of her before whirling around and fast-walking away.

Norway’s smile slipped away, and it looked like he was saying, “I don’t trust you alone with my citizens.”

After that, the only word Lithuania caught was  _ leave _ .

“What do you think they’re up to?” Estonia asked, dragging Lithuania out of his thoughts.

“Not sure.” He got up and told Latvia he could have his wine. “But I’m going to go find out.”

After that note America left him, only to disappear right afterwards, Lithuania deserved some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iubițel - honey/lover/sweetheart. It's a Romanian term of endearment for a boyfriend. (From what Google told me, anyway.)
> 
> I want to toss in a chapter every so often that follows America in the faery realm, but I'm not sure if to start that with the next chapter or the chapter after.


	5. Bluebells: New Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Description of Alfred having been buried alive after the servants leave him alone after his bath. There are also some physical descriptions of his body concerning him having been left to starve in the beginning of the chapter and again when he's being bathed.
> 
> Each of Alfred's chapters that take place during his time in Faery will start with "Bluebells" to help differentiate them from present-day chapters. Also, the Bluebell chapters will bounce around a bit instead of following a linear timeline.

“Not hungry?”

America tasted blood when he bit his tongue to halt the growl that escaped him in response. The green-haired bastard just laughed. He stood and bit into whatever fruit he’d been holding out in front of the cage door, juice running down his pointed chin and long, thin hand. He was so scrawny-looking; how he could overpower  _ America _ —

He didn’t like thinking about it. About the black holes in those memories. About the taste in his mouth and the red staining his palms when time would skip minutes, hours, even days later.

How long had he even been here? The black holes made it impossible to keep track; he’d given up. Trying drove him mad.

The bastard left the room, and America grasped the bars in front of him, thin arms shaking as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. His hair, greasy and grown past his shoulders, fell over his face, but he didn’t bother combing it back. The low ceiling made him hunch forward, and his glasses slid partway down his nose. His trembling fingers slowly ran down the bars, trying to find any bump or wedge,  _ anything _ he could hopefully use to force open the cage’s door. There  _ had _ to be a door, didn’t there?

America licked his cracked lips as he searched, jumping back when the blue-skinned girl—woman? Some of these faeries looked like kids but acted and spoke like adults—crouched in front of the cage. She held a woven basket in her arms. America smelled seasoned meat, and his stomach growled.

Black stars appeared in his vision from the force of his head hitting the back of the small cage, but America blinked them away and pushed his glasses back into place.

The girl said nothing at first, only blinked. Her white lashes were so long that America swore he could feel a breeze come off of them, and her eyes were mint green, the irises so large that the whites could hardly be seen.

The same green as that bastard’s hair and wings. Just seeing the color made Alfred scowl.

“You will starve if you do not eat soon,” she said finally, no longer stumbling over her words as she had when America first met her.

She’d said before that there was a human that worked in the manor that had been teaching her English, so she could talk to him. America didn’t want to ask how she’d convinced the human to teach her or how they even came to be at this manor in the first place.

Could any of his people be here?

America felt sick at the thought.

“I’ve starved before” was all America said.

The girl tilted her head, white-blond hair sliding across her back. It was long enough to pool around her feet. “He could make you.” She blinked. “He is the only one who gains something from you denying food.”

“I—”

_ What _ ? He  _ what _ ?

Kept his pride? While reduced to skin and bones in a  _ cage _ ? Growling or hissing like an animal?

Just how much humanity did he have left? How long until that, too, was gone? What would happen? What  _ had  _ happened?

America still felt a connection, a pull, to his people, his home. He was still a Nation. He had to be. But how long would this remain true?

“What would you get from helping me?” he asked instead, mouth moving so he bared his teeth—fangs; it was useless denying it anymore.

The girl’s cat-like pupils dilated slightly as she met America’s gaze through his hair, which was sticking together in clumps at this point.

“I like your eyes,” she said after a moment, inching forward until the basket she held pressed against the bars of the cage.

“You want… my eyes.” America was too confused to push any emotion into his voice.

“A siren with human eyes is a force, indeed.” The girl jostled the basket, knowing America could smell the meat. His stomach growled again. “Enough to be accepted back into my tribe, I think.” She smiled. “And a human with siren eyes? You would see through glamour without the use of hag stones or the ointment that requires a much higher cost to your person than I am asking. You could  _ cast  _ glamour many earth-bound fae even cannot see through straight away.” Her smile fell. “Do not mistake this for kindness, however.”

“I’ve learned nothing you people do is kind,” America growled, baring his fangs again.

The girl nodded once. “A good thought to remember.”

“What can seeing past faeries’ illusion spells do for me?” America demanded, pulling his knees to his chest, trying and failing to smother the sound his body wouldn’t stop making. “I need an escape route, or fire power, not—”

“Patience,” the girl interrupted. “Power will come to you.”

She reached into the basket and pulled out a hunk of still-bleeding meat bigger than her hand. She tossed it into the cage, watching as America finally gave in and snatched up the food. He ripped into the meat, not pausing to savor the taste as he tore and swallowed, barely taking time to chew.

After America devoured the third chunk of meat, blood running down his arms and neck, the girl continued: “I do not know much. There are few stories of humans being gifted with or trading for faery eyes. However, the few stories known do agree you will be given the Sight and power needed to get back what you want most.”

_ My name _ . America didn’t say it, only licked the blood dripping down his arm. The spices tasted unlike what he was used to. They stung and numbed his tongue and made his veins buzz. Part of him jolted, worried and then angry at the thought that he’d been drugged, but his now-full belly and the curling warmth around his heart and mind quickly pressed against the anxiety until it was little more than a hum.

America took time to think as he blinked slowly and started to sway side to side, aware that the girl was staring at him. She wouldn’t be this insistent if it wasn’t really something that she wanted, right? But how much would America be benefited, really? He was way too out of his depth here. Nothing made sense, but not in the fun  _ Alice in Wonderland _ way. It felt more like  _ Alice: Madness Returns _ .

This wasn’t the first time the girl had spoken to him or offered food, free of any deals or even words. This was the first America even allowed himself to talk back to her, and he wondered now if that was a mistake.

But this could be his only chance. None of the other fae but that bastard talked to him, and this girl seemed to hold ire towards the redcap as well. She’d mentioned her tribe a few times before. Had she been kidnapped? A spoil of war? Was her tribe even still standing?

America felt himself soften even as logic told him he could not afford to leave himself vulnerable again. Not in front of a faery. Empathy could kill him.

And yet, he couldn’t help but let his heart ache for her.

He held out his bloody arm, no longer shaking. His body stilled in its swaying, but his head tilted, hair dragging oil across his glasses.

“Deal,” he whispered, and the faery girl grinned ear to ear as she took his arm, grasping it just beneath his elbow.

He grasped her arm in turn, conscious of the chill of her skin, as though he were holding onto a corpse. The thought didn’t make him shiver as it might have once upon a time—he chuckled to himself as that phrase glided across his thoughts.

This was like no fairy tale he’d ever read. It was nothing like something Disney would touch, not without enough edits to make it something entirely separate from the original. For the first time since first waking up to find another’s blood on his hands, unable to remember where it had come from, America felt hope bloom in his chest as the warmth spread. As the buzz in his veins slowly crescendoed.

“Deal,” the girl agreed, her eyes starting to glow as America felt his burn and water. “You may call me Polaris. We can both escape this place. I feel this in my heart.”

There was darkness, and when America blinked awake, the buzz was gone. He still felt warmth, but it was different from before. It surrounded him, instead of spinning inside him.

He blinked slowly again, realizing he was no longer in the cage. He was in a spacious room, neck-deep in a large tub of water. Nearby, a boy used a pair of bellows to keep a fire nearby alight. The fire heated up water that ran into the tub as tiny holes across from America let out water simultaneously.

A comb ran through America’s hair, hands turning his head back to make him look forward when he tried to see who was there.

“Face forward. Sit still. We’ve not much time before you’re to be seated in the dining hall,” said someone with a gravelly voice.

The voice was familiar. America’s mind was still foggy— _ foggy _ , he thought, feeling a laugh bubble at the base of his throat. His glasses were fogging up, making it difficult to see. He didn’t try to take them off, though, or wipe them. He didn’t really want to move right now. He was perfectly content to sit still and face forward and allow the faery servant to wash him.

A part of his mind said this was a problem, but it was easy to let that thought slip away.

He was to sit still and listen to the servant. He was obedient—

America’s eyes burned, and he narrowed them as a dull pain thrummed along one of his temples. His forehead creased, but he otherwise remained still. He was supposed to, he’d been ordered to listen to the dryad servant.

When?

By who—?

The green-haired bastard.

America’s expression evened out as anger burned inside him, chasing away the fog. He couldn’t disobey, but he was lucid. Aware of himself and the orders.

That was different, and he remembered the blue-skinned girl.

The siren. Polaris.

America rose when ordered, sitting on a raised part of the tub so that the water only came up to his waist. He kept his eyes forward, only partly due to the earlier command. He didn’t want to look down, to see his ribs creating hills and valleys along his pallid skin.

He focused only on the painting on the far wall as the gnomes raised his arms and legs and pushed him forward, as they rubbed scented beads and pumice stones along his skin. As oil was massaged into his scalp by those thin, knobby fingers and water was poured over his body. He focused on the waxy-looking petals of the painted lilies, of the too-long coil hanging off a half-peeled lemon.

Once he smelled of flowers with an undertone America could only think to describe as “spicy dirt,” he was bid to rise again, the gnomes helping him step out of the tub and onto a thick towel. He now stared ahead at a long mirror as he was dried off. His hair was parted to the side, a lock falling forward after the faery servant tried combing it back with the rest of his hair, which was longer than he’d thought, now that it wasn’t sticking together in clumps.

He was dressed in a long and white tunic and loose white pants, and a collar that resembled wax dripping down and ending in small bulbs that glowed softly with silver light was placed around his neck. It felt warm, again like melted wax, and it felt as though it were attaching to his skin, which caused initial but brief panic before America calmed at a word from the dryad.

“Stay in this room,” they ordered, and America remained silent. “Until another servant comes upon the lord’s order to bring you to the dining hall.”

They left without waiting for a response, the gnomes trailing behind them.

The door shut with a soft  _ click _ , and America blinked. He didn’t move for several beats, focusing on the rhythm of his heart and the twinkling of the lights in his new collar. Wondering which followed the other, America dug for a memory that would make his heart race.

His mind went back to the cage in the dark room only the bastard and Polaris had ever entered besides him.

From there, he revisited stiff darkness, an aching back and head, and bloodied fingertips that throbbed and stung and were covered with splinters. He remembered the dancing stars in his vision, crowding him as the space got smaller and smaller, as he suffocated again and again, as he cried and yelled and whispered and whimpered for England, for France, for his governess, for Canada, for God, for anyone. For even the Devil at his most desperate.

Only for no one to come. Only for his throat to grow too sore, even with his healing abilities. Only for his fingers to be scratched down to bone.

Only to finally gulp down clean air after dying innumerable times, smelling dirt, ointment, and beer.

Centuries later, America still hadn’t spoken to Sweden or Finland about that day, hadn’t asked how either had found out about what happened, hadn’t even thanked them for digging him out of that grave.

Neither of them had tried talking to him about it, either, to be fair. Didn’t even ask what America had been doing in Nya Sverige, not that America even remembered—he couldn’t even remember what year that had happened. All Finland had ever said about it was back in the 1950s that now that America had a good economy, he should pay Sweden the money he’d had to offer to avoid jail for graverobbing—only for Sweden to stutter and say it was unnecessary before the topic was dropped.

America’s heartbeat never rose, and the twinkling of the silver lights never faltered.

Just what was this collar?

Frowning, America moved closer to the mirror, having to be slow as his muscles protested at the movement after he’d been curled up in that cage for so long.

Once in front of the mirror, America moved his hair back, avoiding touching his ear as much as he could and trying to tuck enough hair behind it to see without revealing his ears. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he found that they’d become pointed, like the bastard’s, like the dryad’s, like those gnomes’.

But then America saw his eyes, and he thought he’d rather deal with pointed ears.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, making that deal with Polaris, but he hadn’t expected his eyes to be bigger, lashes longer, irises so large the whites couldn’t be seen, or vertical pupils that narrowed as the candles in the nearby sconce grew and flickered.

The mint green color that flared out around his pupils like halos made America want to vomit, and when he swallowed, he tasted bile. The familiar clear blue of springs reflecting summer skies circled it, but that color was narrow, blending with the green in a shade that reminded America of seafoam. He wondered if the blue would soon disappear.

The door opened, and America straightened and allowed his hair to fall back forward and shadow his narrow face.

“I will need to teach you how to use glamour quickly. Strong enough against a Lord, at least for a few minutes.”

Turning, America took in the frightened look on Polaris’s round face, eyes both familiar and alien staring back at him.

“Teach me,” he said.

The flicker of the silver lights and his heartbeat remained steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Work started back up, and it's been busy. (And the Canadian border's due to open this month unless it gets pushed back again, so we're likely to get even busier.)


	6. Author's Note

I love this fic's premise, but I keep getting ideas I can't force to fit into it with what's already been written. So I'm starting from the beginning, but I want to wait until it's all written before posting this time. I've never planned for it to go on for too long (10 chapters at most), so hopefully it doesn't take me long.

I will be posting occasional WIP posts about it on my Tumblr captive-hetalian, and they'll be tagged "fairytale fic wip". Sorry for this ^^"" But when I started thinking about the new plot points, it was all I could see, and trying to get back to trying to write what I've already written just felt like a chore, which I don't like, since I use fanfic purely for relaxing and exercising my writing skills. I hope y'all will like the new fairy!Alfred fic once it's up, but I understand if you're disappointed orz


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